


the tenderness of your life

by vois



Category: Densetsu no Yuusha no Densetsu | The Legend of the Legendary Heroes
Genre: Blood, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23385523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vois/pseuds/vois
Summary: "Let go of my hand now, while you still can."That's what he should have said, but the both of them have always been selfish enough to chase after this fleeting, glittering happiness.Still, that's not so bad, is it?
Relationships: Lucile Eris/Miran Froaude
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	the tenderness of your life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idola/gifts).



Lucile comes before him as a visage of red.

Miran is in the gardens, at the time. He would not say that he was admiring the roses, no; rather, he was admiring the roses in the absence of his father. The late Marquess had been fond of pretty things, and often asked Miran to accompany him to the fountain, the reflecting pool, the trellis or marble arch...

Yes, he had been asked to the gardens often, to have flowers tucked into his shirts or to be posed by trees and topiaries like a doll. So he had never truly seen any of it before, because his eyes had only been on his father and wherever he was told to look. 

All of it is his now, in its ostentatious glory. He has neglected his holdings for some time, having fired nearly all of the staff and kept only a few posts open to be replaced. Now, he lifts his hands to examine one of the roses in the hedge. They have become overgrown in the absence of a proper groundskeeper - not to say that Miran will waste time finding someone to employ for this. He is only curious to see if the roses have truly been bred thornless, as the man often bragged.

“Are you fond of flowers, Marquess?”

His fingers touch upon a pale cheek, petal-soft, rather than an actual petal.

“...Duke Eris,” Miran says, when he has regained the presence of mind to speak. “What brings you here?”

“Only curiosity,” Lucile says. He seems to fade in and out like a phantom until Miran thinks to take a step back. Lucile gives him a nod and steps forward, to match.

It is only then that Miran realizes. The red dappling across his skin was not merely from the roses; the man is absolutely drenched in blood.

“Duke Eris!”

“There is no need to fret,” Lucile says. “Your precious king is quite safe, as you should expect... haha.”

There’s no way he can admit that that’s not what he meant.

“Does the ‘you’ by His Majesty’s side also look like this?” Miran asks instead, and hopes that he sounds cross rather than... whatever this is. Lucile tilts his head. “Never mind, come along. I can hardly allow one of His Majesty’s advisors to be seen like this.”

It's only after they reach the trellis that Miran remembers something. He stops and turns to check.

"...I'll thank you not to trail blood within the manor," he says. "It would be difficult to deal with."

"It's not as if anyone has to see it?" Lucile smiles, but he turns briefly transparent. Most of the blood sloughs off - no, _through_ him - as though he were slipping off a cloak.

Most. 

There's a trail of blood above his brow that disappears into his hair, but more than that, Miran's eyes are drawn to his hands. There's drops forming at his fingertips, and one of his nails is split.

"Yes, this is my own blood. Apologies," Lucile tells him, and folds them together. Today his robe is one with wider sleeves, and he tucks his hands in easily. Miran twitches at the stain blooming there.

"Don't be ridiculous," he says. "Come here," but what he really wants to say is _who on earth could make you bleed?_

 _Who on earth made you bleed_ before _me?_

Yes, this is what he has been wondering ever since Lucile's arrived in such a state. Blood does not land upon Lucile's body unless he desires. Miran has happened upon him surrounded with felled assassin's and looking unbearably pristine. Miran has flattered himself that he was an opponent _worthy_ of having his blood worn around Lucile's wrist, ringing the hem of his sleeve. Miran has certainly not faced a competitor for this particular honor, especially... especially one _capable_ of making _Lucile Eris_ bleed - 

He kicks the edge of the fountain with his next step. It's lucky he didn't trip into it, but someone like Lucile probably noticed all the same.

"...It was not my intention to intrude," Lucile says, blandly. Miran narrows his eyes. "I shall be on my way, if you so desire - "

"I said don't be ridiculous," Miran repeats, brow furrowing. "You can't be seen in such a state, it will reflect poorly on His Majesty."

It would be easy for Lucile to point out that without his will, he can't be seen... but he doesn't. Rather, he seems pleased. He sits at the edge of the fountain when Miran gestures for him to do so, and does not comment when Miran crouches instead of doing the same.

"The wounds have healed, yes?"

"Yes," Lucile says. Miran nods and rolls up his sleeves.

"...My, what a gracious host."

...well, Lucile will always comment to tease. It's like he can't resist, but Miran can't exactly blame him at this point in their relationship.

Miran pulls at the hem of Lucile's sleeve, feeling strangely childish for a moment, before guiding his hands to the water. There's more blood than he expected, really... even when Lucile jabbed his fingers into his gut, or deigned to sever some limb with his nails rather than simply tearing... even when Lucile allowed for Miran's blood upon his fingertips, if only so he could lick the trails away so teasingly -

Even then, it was never like this? These red hands, he's never seen this. He's never seen anything like this.

Lucile's fingers are long, though certainly not as long as his, seeing as his hands are larger, and they are elegant. The kind that would have nobles exclaiming and asking, "Do you play an instrument?", and upon a denial insist on introducing some tutor or other who might be a spy or saboteur - although Miran imagines that the Eris household did not care for music lessons. No, the only art these hands practice is that of violence. These hands that look so gentle and unmarred are the same that rend him, bone from flesh and flesh from skin...

He traces each finger gently under the water and watches the blood billowing away like clouds at dusk, or a faint pink smoke. It's not difficult to clean the blood from under his nails, either, seeing as it's not yet dry, but Miran still takes his time rubbing Lucile's fingertips. Although he's never enjoyed washing another man before, this time there's something relaxing about it. He can hazard a guess as to why, but it's not like it's something Miran could freely admit.

Lucile's palm is soft when Miran swipes his thumb across it. Most of the blood peels away with just one stroke. One, two, yes, two more. Two more and he's done here. He traces his fingers up to Lucile's wrist. They're thin and bony and they look so delicate, like a bird's ankle or the stem of a goblet. It's as if he could crush it in his grip, hear the crunch of bone and the sound of marrow draining -

...haha, what kind of fantasy is he... entertaining...?

"My host takes such good care of me," Lucile comments. "Am I such a guest of honor in your house?"

Miran swallows. Lucile lifts his hand from the water, like a spell breaking.

"...if you wish to stay the night, certainly," he says. Then, a bit more daring, "Though I've no doubt you've already done so unseen."

For a moment, he's afraid he's overstepped. 

Then Lucile laughs, deep and clear as anything. Miran takes his other hand and busies himself with it so as to distract himself from the sound.

"Your cheeks are almost as red as the water," Lucile teases. "It'll look like someone was murdered, you know... should we bathe together, after our next spar?"

"...I am not you," Miran says, though the thought is very compelling. "I will require bandaging. And possibly stitches."

"I'll be gentle, then," Lucile says, and Miran cannot for the life of him figure out if he is joking.

When all is said and done, they return to the manor together. If Lucile seems overly familiar with the path to his room, well, Miran doesn't say anything. Though he does have to stop Lucile from heading towards one of the baths.

He doesn't think any of the servants have seen, and they are all sworn to secrecy, naturally, but it might be better to dispose of them and bring in a new wave all the same? For security. Though there have been whispers of the Froaude manor being cursed as of late, and such a quick turnover certainly won't help.

"Rest with me," Lucile tells him. "I am so very tired from all this fighting."

Miran gives him an incredulous look. His expression hasn't changed in the least, nor his voice, and certainly it is unimaginable for an Eris to say such a thing, and - !

...and whoever Lucile had slain had been able to wound him in return, and Lucile had seen fit to wear their blood for who knows how long. Miran nods. 

"Just a short rest. The couch will do."

"You lay down first, then."

It's a bit uncomfortable adjusting for Lucile as well, but he manages to fit with his back to Miran's chest. "Don't roll over or drop me, now," he says, before grabbing Miran's hand and pulling his arm over himself like a blanket, but it's not as if he wouldn't wake up if Miran did.

Lucile seems to be able to sleep on command. He's almost jealous. But it does leave him an opportunity.

He stares at Lucile's hand in his. Miran's thought this before, but surely...

...

...what would Halford's ring look like, on Lucile's finger? 

It'd be easy, right? If Lucile is asleep. Surely he doesn't wake at every movement; Miran has gotten up and returned to bed plenty of times. No, Lucile only wakes when Miran moves to choke him or stab him or otherwise try to kill him, so something like... something like taking off his ring and slipping it onto Lucile's finger, just for a moment, just to check - 

He shuts his eyes and exhales. The image is burning behind his eyelids, blurred and melting and begging him to properly define it. But that’s ridiculous. That’s beyond his ability.

He can’t allow himself to think about it, so instead it becomes the dream that chases him into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> lucile always leaves before miran wakes up, so that's not a surprise, but  
> when miran woke up...  
> ...  
> ...  
> halford's ring was on his ring finger instead of his middle finger!??!?!?!  
> miran: [bewildered staring]  
> miran: what does it mean...  
> hmmmmm!! i wonder. what do you think it means? what do you think it means, miran. miran, you idiot man.


End file.
